


Of Names and Relations

by doctormissy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Inspired by Dreams, Kidnapped Q, Language, M/M, Mission Fic, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one in MI6 except for M knew the Quartermaster's name. It always was a big mystery they didn't dare to try on solving until it somehow solved itself when Q was kidnapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a dream I had about a month ago. I don't usually remember them very well, but this one remained vivid for the entire time, so I decided to write it. This was exactly what happened, nothing less, nothing more. Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://wiilgrahams.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Come talk to me anytime, and check out this ~~shite~~ [aesthetic](http://wiilgrahams.tumblr.com/post/149787609668/fanfiction-aesthetics-of-names-and-relations-no) I made for this fic!

The entire MI6 were up on their feet, running around Headquarters, and doing everything they could to get their Quartermaster back.

He was kidnapped.

And the abductor sent them a video, in which he demanded an unreasonable high amount of money for his safe return, every twenty minutes. They were expecting one any second now, if the pattern remained the same.

Nothing looked safe, though; Q was strapped to an old chair with a wiggly leg by thick sisal rope, had a gag in his mouth, and his glasses were missing, replaced with few nasty bruises round his eyes and a bleeding lip. God help it what they had done to him.

M, Moneypenny, Tanner, and half the agents and Q-Branch staff occupied M’s office and replayed the videos on and on to search for every detail that might help them in eliciting his position. They were closer and closer to revealing from where exactly was the signal transmitted with every broadcast.

Everyone was worried as never before, the boss the most. She valued the Quartermaster and his superior skills sorely and couldn’t let something happen to him. MI6 would break.

She was rather nervous, pacing round the tiny space in her office and speaking to someone via phone, the Prime Minister in the least. 

To everyone’s surprise, Bond was the one to stand in front of the screen and constantly bark orders at the minions. M did not know why 007 was so determined to rescue Q and frankly did not understand why him of all people. For all she knew, they only argued over equipment and orders that were not obeyed and bantered all the time.

But now, when Q was gone and facing imminent danger in form of an ultimatum and hope for money being the only trammel between his head and a bullet, deep worry and fear reflected in his eyes.

R claimed she was only one video away from locating his position, and everyone wished it were true. They needed to get to him before it was too late, for although they were closer within every other transmittal, Q was also closer to death. If they did not get him during the next one, it could as well be too late with another. 

Beeping and tapping of fingers on keyboards and tablets filled the silence in the room, alongside with M’s humming, until the crucial relay finally broke it and blackness filled the huge screen.

A few seconds later, a face in a heinous skull mask appeared in the centre of it and gave the minions the time they needed.

It was a one-way channel, so no one could say anything to hold up the transmission for as long as possible, but from all they have learnt, he would give them one minute and forty-two seconds precisely. That was time sufficient for the hackers to reach the transmission point.

The man in the mask started to talk, using a voice modulator to sound more terrifying and rough. This time he tightened up the conditions, but also gave them more information, _“You have exactly one hour to bring the money to this address.”_

The image switched to white-on-black sign, one simple sentence. Name of a street at the Thames, a meeting point. But everyone knew Q won’t be there, only one of the abductor’s men. They still needed the video itself to pinpoint the place where Q was held.

 _“Only one of you, alone. One hour, or your precious Quartermaster dies.”_ He turned the camera to the chair and a man pointing a gun at Q’s head. _“So I advise you do what I say if you want Andrew Bond back.”_

With that sentence, the image had switched off, centred.

“We’ve got him!” R shouted and swiftly pulled the chair she was sitting in back so she could victoriously get up and exclaim the good news once again. But then she and everyone else realised what they had heard.

“Did he really mistake the Quartermaster for a dead man or am I old enough to be hard of hearing already?” M said, but looked at Bond suspiciously, in a way that suggested M surmised what he had said wasn’t a complete mistake.

When she had employed him as the Quartermaster, she read all his files and remembered his given name was Andrew, just as Bond’s father’s, but the surname was different. She also was sure there was nothing between Q and 007, or at least until now. Spies were extremely good at keeping and covering secrets after all.

Bond outdrew his Walther from behind the waistband of his trousers and got ready to go and save the Quartermaster from the hell they had held him in.

“I’m afraid he made no mistake, M. What you had heard was correct, that is Q’s name,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I am going to retrieve my husband at once and no one can stop me. R, coordinates?”

“Of course, sir,” the young woman assured him, making no protests or saying anything on that big surprise.

Bond made his way to her, she scribbled a line of letters and numbers on a paper and shoved it to the Double-Oh. He looked at it, memorised it and strode out of the office.

 

And that was how the Quartermaster’s name and the relationship between him and Bond came to light and no longer was a mystery.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, here we go, I finally finished at least one chapter! It took me longer than I thought, cos I've been through sth like a writer block lately and I managed to do it only thanks to Hollywood Undead and their music. It gave me the right beats and energy I just needed.
> 
> Anyway, I am not particularly happy about this - I think it could be better. But that's probably cos it was supposed to be only a short ficlet, and that's it. Look where had this blasted thing gone now, multichapter and with a plot. 
> 
> The rating might go up yet, for violence, mentions of torture, swearing, etc, in later chapters. Language warnings here already.

“Bond, it’s an obvious trap!” M exclaimed after Bond. It was the last thing the Double-Oh could hear before the office door closed, and he headed to the car park. He ran fast. 

It was afternoon. They held Q in abandoned Underground tunnels of Piccadilly Line. Rush hours of London traffic began, since everyone went for lunch, and he had less than an hour to retrieve his darling husband from the vengeful men greedy for an absurd sum. And something else, undoubtedly. There must have been more behind this – no one would just take the Quartermaster of MI6 if they only wanted government money. 

Besides, they somehow learnt his real name, which took Bond himself months, and told it the entire Service. Their relationship and later marriage was a perfectly concealed secret until some wankers shouted it out to the world, and every single bloody person knew, M included.

They kept it a secret for the sake of everyone, M in particular. No one knew, and it was perfect that way. It was safer. Bond could do his job – go on missions, seduce people for information, kill people – and so could Q. It was also safer for Q – when no one knew about his association with Bond, he was comparatively out of harm’s way – until now. 

They both were aware of the possibility that someone will find out eventually, yes. They worked for an intelligence agency after all; Bond actually wondered it did not happen yet. But they did everything to conceal what they had – they wore no bands or bracelets, they didn’t go to or from work together, they tried to keep out of each other’s way except for necessary occasions as mission preps, they tried to talk to each other as little as they could, they tried not to flirt or argue like an old married couple, which they were, and they never kissed or demonstrated affection in any other way unless they were hundred percent sure they really really were alone and not under observation of a CCTV camera. 

Someone, like Eve, perhaps might have had few suspicions, but most blamed it on Bond’s natural tendency to flirt with everyone. 

He was not looking forward to the lecture about workplace relationships she will surely give them both, once they return— _if_ they return. But he was an agent; he was acknowledged with this sort of things all too well. They _are_ going to go back safe, whatever that word meant anyway. He no longer knew. 

He knew M, and that was exactly what she was going to do after making sure Q was all right and sending him to Medical. Given his state, he was likely to stay there for a while.

Frankly, M was the least of Bond’s concern at the moment. Q was a top priority, and not just for him, but for the entire Six. He maybe was their youngest Quartermaster ever, but he was also most adroit and efficient, and they would not survive without him very well. 

_He_ wouldn’t survive without him very well.

Bond did not think quite rationally. He was impulsive and acted upon the rush cue for getting to the coordinates at once. He jumped in the nearest car, started it, not minding the seatbelt, and left the car park at high speed, accompanied by squeaks of the tyres and sound of the roaring engine, which filled the otherwise silent space. 

It was his fault entirely, or at least he thought so. They had a harsh argument earlier in the morning, which led to Bond leaving for work hours earlier than usual and Q staying in the flat alone. He cursed himself for that—if he weren’t such a self-important prick, apologised to him, and settled it all, Q would have been safe. He would have protected him. He was stupid, he was fucking stupid, and he could see it now.

He needed to go along three roads only, but even three miles could take twenty minutes in current conditions. Yes, the hacker said hour, but god knows what his sidekick is going to do with Q if MI6 will not send the money. They threatened to kill him; and even if they did not _kill_ him, grave injuries making him stand on the edge of life and death were _not_ out of the question. 

Bond drove onto Vauxhall Bridge, on which the traffic was fortunately considerably smooth, and continued straight on, but once he got farther on A202, it started to be slower and more stressful. It psychically exhausting, knowing his boffin husband, who was not a field agent at all and is never going to be, had an oppressing gun pointed at his head. The man’s life was at stake. Bond knew they were not bluffing, he knew the type. 

And he couldn’t imagine what was as horrible experience as this like for Q. It must have been a thousand times more stressful and exhausting for him. For a man, who was capable of sitting on the comms for days, conducting dangerous and hard missions, give orders to kill, develop deadly weapons, and protect MI6 servers bravely and vigorously, but barely could pull the trigger himself, or even fight someone and win. 

Bond was adamant on teaching Andrew how to fight hand-to-hand, how to shoot and not lose it, how to protect himself in case requisite. He was a good and thriving student with equal obduracy, yet he was not prepared for something like this.

007 checked the watch. 1:14 pm. 

How come no one noticed Q did not come to work anyway? His lab was usually full of his housemen and minions, for god’s sake! Why didn’t any of them notice? Why didn’t he notice? 

He didn’t have time to take one of the earpieces, and nor there were some in the car, so he had to take his phone to call Six for updates. Although it was mere minutes, he was scared.

He considered calling M, but then dismissed the thought, for it wasn’t very reasonable decision to make if one was completely sane. He trusted R, the Quartermaster’s smart and, he had to admit, rather badass assistant, more. Therefore, he pressed 8 on speed dial and put it on loudspeaker. 

R picked up immediately. _“Yes, 007?”_ Her voice was steady and considerably calm, just like Q’s when they communicated via radio on missions. 

“Tell me you have some updates on Q,” Bond practically ordered, impatient. The red light on the traffic light switched to green and he could move on.

 _“M sent three men to the address that skull-head gave us, but told them to hold back until further notice. She’s counting on you, although not very willingly; I think you can imagine, 007,”_ replied R. He could hear typing in the distance. She did her best to help him get his husband home. 

_“Don’t worry; Q is going to be fine, although_ fine _is a rather relative statement, considering his current state and situation. …I know those men gave you a good reason to be upset with them and I also know what you can be like when someone crosses your bows, but don’t screw it up and try to make as little mess as you can. You know what I mean.”_

He knew what she meant, of course, but given the circumstances, it was highly improbable. They took his husband and beaten him up almost unconscious; they deserve nothing less than a shot in the head. It was his job and his responsibility to protect the Country’s safety – and regarding the state of affairs, this met the conditions exemplarily. He’d be doing them a favour. 

And well, he doubted Q is going to be fine. He knew him better than anyone did – they lived together! That genius dork might have been tougher than he seemed to be, but he still was just the Quartermaster and should have never experienced something as horrible as abduction. 

“Thank you, R.” That was all Bond could say after he processed all the information the girl had gave him. 

He tried to go faster, but the convoys of cars and buses before him slowed him down significantly. He was used to emptier roads. To be honest, this was one of the reasons why he didn’t like staying in London for too long. The traffic and all the people. He didn’t understand Q and his everyday travels in the tube. He had enough of that when he had to chase Silva after his grandiose escape, thank you very much.

He moved forward continuously yet not quickly enough, according to the instincts, which propelled him to go faster and faster until he punches a hole in the wall that separated him and Q and kills everyone to the last man. 

Luckily, the lights were green on next two traffic lights, and Vauxhall Bridge Road was emptier, so he could speed up. However, the closer to Westminster and Victoria Station he got, the heavier the traffic was. He was stuck behind a 36 for some time, before it turned another way and reappeared behind his car again. 

Nevertheless, he was only few minutes away from getting to that damned station and saving Q at last. And the first thing he was going to do afterwards was giving the man a proper apology, kiss, and tight hug, because that was only what his darling deserved. Bond was an arsehole, and he swore to himself that he’ll never do such impetuous, foolish action as exhibited in the morning.

Thinking of one of his husband’s favourite songs, _This is War_ by that bloke who played the Joker and whose band’s name Bond forgot, helped him with the crawling impatience, because that was exactly how would Bond describe the situation; war was an incredibly fitting allegory for his feelings toward those fuckers who dared to do something as horrible to Andrew and MI6. 

Bond turned right to Piccadilly and wished for all lights to be green. He was one more turn to the left from desired destination. 

Were this a mission to save anyone else and were Q in his lab, he would have hacked the lights to guarantee him a clear pass. Q always did things like that, little courtesies just for 007. Remembering that made the Double-Oh smile, but remembering he wasn’t there made his hands holding the wheel stiffen and his eyes give the red light in front of him a death glare. 

He drowned those thoughts in another song he could think of, humming one line over and over again. _You are the reason I can’t control myself._ Yet in fact, Q was the only reason he could. 

The thought of the image he saw on the video, the thought of how beautiful Andrew’s eyes were, and the thought of bringing him home after all terrible things happened made him concentrate on his task only and not break. It drove him. It made him ignore the speed limits once he finally got green and run over the pavement when he turned to Down Street at last.

There were two unoccupied spots right in front of the former station, which was a shop now. Bond parked the car at one of them, opened the door sharply and slammed it shut with equal force, and ran to the grey door next to the shop. That was the only possible entrance to the tunnels. 

Bond did not care about curious and suspicious looks of passer-bys and a woman going out from the market. He locked the car and tried to open the door by pulling and pushing it, but of course it was locked. This reminded him of the Silva incident again, and that reminded him of Q.

It was probably not a good idea, but then again, nor was breaking in and trying to get Q out on his own. Therefore, he outdrew a pistol from behind the waistband and fired one quick round that enabled opening of the door. What civilians thought of him was none of his business. They could call the police for all he cared, as long as he gets Q out of there and gets rid of the abductor for good. 

The door revealed a corridor leading to a nearby staircase and lift. The place was dark, old, and dirty, smelling of mildew and stale air. There probably were rats, too, but he did not want to think about that. His only concern was the surroundings and potential hitmen hiding behind the corners. 

Bond assumed Q was being held somewhere on the platforms or the very tunnels. He walked down the stairs cautiously yet fast, armed and ready for anything.

When he reached another corridor that led him to the platforms, or so he supposed, he caught a silent sound of shuffling legs and a gun’s hammer being drawn. It was coming from the right.

The agent instinctively took cover by the wall, turned to the passage, and shot three times before he needed to hide again. The other man was firing as well. There was almost no light whatsoever, thus he could rely on hearing only. That might have been advantage for another one of Q’s favourite comic heroes, but not for him. 

When gunfire from the other side ceased, he peeked out from his cover again and emptied the magazine but three bullets. The other gunman fell dead at last, but it was not all, naturally. Bond still could hear steps. They were approaching him.

He made a mental note about the hacker’s men – there was hacker himself, the man with Q, these two, and two more outside, waiting for M’s money. At least six then; he was no amateur. He knew his way round Q’s protocols and firewalls, he had his flunkeys, and he clearly thought he could overpower a Double-Oh agent. He knew MI6, he knew M, he knew the Double-Ohs, he knew Q and his real name. 

That sounded very familiar to Bond – and then he realised it was the very same case as with Silva. The man with the skull mask was most presumably a former employee, most likely agent. 

That was the kidnapper’s true identity then. But it was too late – he couldn’t call R now. All he could do was to shoot and kill the second man.

Bond tired to concentrate on the steps and fired all three remaining rounds. 

Had he not omitted the fact the attacker had two arms, a classic pistol and a tranq, he would have gotten him and continued on his way to Q. He completely forgot about that sinister option.

The other man was faster, for he had night-vision goggles or something of the sort. Bond hit his shoulder, but he hit Bond’s chest with two tranquiliser darts. Very strong tranquiliser darts.

Bond felt a sudden wave of dizziness. He let go of his handgun, because he had strength to hold it no more, and it fell on the tiles with a dull clink. 

“Oh, shit…” he said and collapsed in a heap right next to his gun. He felt the man’s hands drag him along the passage by his legs with strength extraordinary for someone who has just been shot in the shoulder, and then it was just blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think it was going to be easy, now did you? *evil laughter* I assume it's gonna be _long_.
> 
> The songs were 30STM, in case you wondered, and by 'comic hero' I meant Daredevil. Y' know, these nerd!Q headcanons XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, there's another! Since I'm sick and stuck at home, doing nothing but sitting in bed with a laptop (and feeling like Q in all the sickfics, tbh), I wrote for all day and this is a result. The rating _did_ go up. Nothing graphic, but anyway.

Bond felt sharp, stinging pain on his right cheek and then someone’s fist hit his eye. There was blood. It made the agent slowly open his eyes, for the first time after minutes. 

He blinked repeatedly until his vision cleared enough to see the man in front of him, even though the tunnel he held him in was as dark as the rest of the station. There was only one fluorescent lamp, nothing more. 

It was the one in the mask. That bastard who took Q.

 _Q_. Bond quickly forgot about the man, the fact the one-hour limit probably expired long ago, or the humiliating fact they managed to knock him out and tie to a chair in an abandoned tube tunnel. He could only think about his husband.

“Q, where is Q?!” he shouted at the dark figure, but his voice was somewhat hoarse and weak. He sounded more like a defeated dying man desperately attempting to let the last shreds of bravery out and knock his opponent down.

The man did not answer; he just looked at him with his nefarious eyes peeping out of the ugly mask. 

Yet, there _was_ a reply, unexpected and surprising. “Right here, James. I am right here.”

Bond’s heart almost stopped. The voice, the silent and broken voice, sounded from behind him. They and the chairs they were strapped to were tied together by backrests, but far enough for the couple to be unable to touch each other. 

“Q. Q, did they hurt you too badly? Are you alright?” He knew these questions were pointless and quite inappropriate, but it was all he could think of, and he needed to hear Andrew’s voice again, make sure he wasn’t just a delusion made up by his drugged mind. 

“Except for the gun incessantly pointed at my head, the lack of glasses on my nose, and few large bruises, I am, love, but you know what? I think we both are screwed.”

Having heard Q still did not lose his sense for witty responses and apparently forgot everything they said in the morning Bond felt immediate relief. However, there were different feelings mixed with the good ones – dismay and anxiety.

His husband was right. If MI6 and they want to survive the day, they better come up with something, and quickly. 

And then he remembered – he had a radio and tracker that recorded anything he said if turned on inbuilt in his shoe. The most important thing they needed and didn’t have was time. Bond had to buy them as much time as he could. 

Bond pulled the tight ropes binding his wrists and ankles in an attempt to free himself, break the frangible chair, anything. He growled when he failed. They were just too tight. 

And as he did so, he noticed there was something else, not ropes only. 007 looked down at his arms and feet and saw wires leading to the nearest wall, connected to a switch laid on the floor behind Q, next to a camcorder and a laptop. The other ends of the red cables were winded round the chair legs and his, and undoubtedly, Q’s, wrists, and disappeared under the seat. There must have been explosives fastened to the bottom of the chair seat. 

That was his leverage then. If M won’t give him the money, they are going to blow up. If she will, Skull-Head’s men will put the money in a bank or something. He is going to see it in his account statement and stop the countdown. 

That unpleasant discovery infuriated Bond even more. His blood rushed with adrenaline, protectiveness, and deep care for Q. He tried to free himself once more. How else but in vain. 

The kidnapper tsked. “Oh, haven’t all you spies learnt your lesson yet?” He cocked his gun and aimed it at Bond, dangerously waving it round and pointing at his wrists. His voice was not modulated by that device anymore – he spoke softly yet resolutely, and Bond would swear he heard that voice somewhere. He just could not place it. 

If his theory were correct and the Skull-Head, as R called him, truly were an agent, it would be no wonder he knew him. The man, too, knew Bond – they must have met, at some point. There was just something about the tone and the way he talked. He sounded young-ish, self-important, theatrical, and a little too pleased with himself. If he only remembered— 

“This won’t help you. There is no possible way of escape. I gave your friends at the Secret Service another twenty minutes, but if they won’t give me what I want, you’re both dead. For nothing,” he sighed, wannabe disappointed. “They could have spared both you and me so much time and trouble if they just did what I told them to.”

Bond, despite everything, chuckled. “Save your breath; M will rather tell all of us to go to hell than to listen to anyone’s orders, let alone agent’s who has betrayed her.”

There was a remote sign of shock in the man’s eyes.

“I was right then. Good.”

That earned the Double-Oh another hard and painful punch in the face. At least he left Q alone for now. 

Time was all that mattered. MI6 certainly knew where they were held, they were aiming at the other men waiting for the money case, and they were willing to sacrifice everything for 007 and the Quartermaster’s safe, although delayed, return. He was pretty sure they already had their agents, Eve in charge of them, waiting inside the station. 

Capture was not something Bond was ready for, yet it was something he should have anticipated, especially when he found out what was really going on in there. He was a spy with years of practice – he should have known! It couldn’t be that easy when it came to his occupation and kidnaps. 

They wanted to take him as well so they could demand more money and something more. Information? Blank criminal records? Clean slate? Feigned death and a tropical island? M’s death, just like Silva? Bond couldn’t read their minds. Nevertheless, he could tell what defector operatives like he wished for and the means they used to gain their reward. 

“Don’t get too cocky, 007. Time is ticking, and I still can’t see any development in this affair. You see, no twos and zeros coming to my bank account,” he turned his gaze to the computer. “If I don’t see any numbers on that screen in eight minutes, then _boom_ , you all go up in the air, and I will initiate the second wave of attacks. I can guarantee your dear M I will not be as nice and generous anymore.”

Eight minutes, that was not much. Bond needed to hear two more things and then he could execute his plan comprising the radio and fellow agents. 

“I wouldn’t exactly describe the way you treat us as generous. ‘Abusive’ would perhaps be a better term,” Q riposted, trying to sound confident and not shaken, although he was far from so. 

“Oh, you think you can get all clever up on me? You, little Andy from IT Department?” he laughed, and that mocking demeanour made the young man grit his teeth. He was stronger and braver than one would think.

Yet, that sentence told Bond almost all he needed to know. He used to be, or perhaps still was, MI5, considering he said he knew Q from IT Department. The boffin worked there before M discovered where his potential truly lay and employed him as the Quartermaster when the previous one died in an accident while developing some kind of a very deadly weapon. 

“Punch him, and don’t hold back,” ordered Skull-Head the goon aiming at Q. The man lowered his pistol, cracked his knuckles, and gave Q two surgical jabs, one in the eye and the other in the jaw. 

Q let out a wail and spit blood on the floor. Hearing his husband suffer, Bond clenched his fists, and could a glare kill, the kidnapper would be dead twice by now. However, he just grinned and nodded at his man to deliver Q one more punch, this time in the stomach.

Q gave a groan when the man’s fist landed in his abdomen. It hurt him stupendously, but it still hurt Bond more. He is going to kill all the motherfuckers himself, he swore on that. 

He exclaimed, “Punch me as you want, but leave Q alone!” 

“James. It’s… it’s alright. Just don’t let him… do anything,” the Quartermaster whispered to Bond, however, Skull-Head’s goon heard it too. He thought Q apparently needed few more blows since he stated he was alright. 

This time, the Quartermaster bought it in the stomach twice, and once in his left eyebrow. 

“What exactly is it that you want?” Bond shouted even louder than before. Learning that was the last piece of the puzzle he needed. Well, not he, but M. If it were up to Bond, he would have given the order to kill Skull-Head and his sidekicks when he had had the first chance. “You can tell me since we are dead anyway.”

“What I want? That is simple. I want the government to make amends for what they have done to me. I want to teach your M that bad decisions always have consequences, and what better means of accomplishment thereof than threatening to kill you two, her most valued personnel and oh so sweet couple of husbands, can there be? I want her to erase all records and traces of me from all databases. And a little sum, let’s say £2,000,000, is just a bonus that will help me and my friends disappear and start a new life.”

The man reached to his face and slowly took the mask off. It was not just a technique of intimidation, but it also covered nasty burns covering all of the man’s face and neck. He had his eyes, but the rest of the skin was pink, disfigured, scarred, and turgid after an awry surgery. Bond could not turn his gaze away from the man, however he wanted to do so. 

_Same old story over and over again_ , thought Bond. He was getting tired of these psychopaths who wanted a new identity, new life, and ‘justice’ and tried to accomplish it by blackmail and threats. 

“Do you know how many men as you have I encountered during my career of a spy, and do you know how many of them ended up happily ever after, having what they desired? Count it up. I’m sure it is no difficult maths,” the Double-Oh deadpanned, looking the man in the eye. He found the face intimidating no more. 

He counted they still had slightly less than seven minutes left. That was plenty of time. He could speak from experience. 

If Bond tapped the floor three times, the clever little device hidden in the shoe would send a distress signal to M’s office, and she would, at last, give the order to shoot Skull-Head’s minders and come for Q and him. 

He made sure his face had all of the man’s attention and silently knocked the tiles with his right shoe swiftly. Thrice. 

Hadn’t the tiny device been silenced by his socked foot pressed to the toe box, he would have heard an imperceptible beep when it activated the transmission.

Skull-Head frowned and gave Bond a look suggesting he was not amused and started to lose his patience. He came closer to Bond, inches away from his face, and whispered, “You think you are smarter than me? You think you can lecture me? As you said, Mr Bond, you soon are a dead man. Any of your words cannot frighten me off.”

Then, he rose. He walked to the camera and turned it on. He lifted the switch that could either set the bombs off earlier than expected or stop the countdown, but Bond was sure that was not what he was about to do. He started to fiddle with it, standing in front of the camera.

“You have one minute, M. This is your last chance. Do you hear me? Tick-tock.”

Honestly, he sounded a bit crazy too, when Bond thought about it. God knows what happened to him that he has gone out of his mind. And God only will ever know.

“What about _you_ have one minute? Because if I am correct, our agents have shot your sidekicks, and point their guns right at your head,” Bond noted and couldn’t help smiling triumphantly. 

As if on cue, the clicking of gun hammers being drawn sounded in the tunnel, and four agents surrounded the group consisting of Bond, Q, Skull-Head, and his last minder. The others were all dead.

Eve lead the quartet, pointing her sub-machine gun at Skull-Head, or, more likely, _Scar-Head_. 

They only had seconds. 

The heavy would have pulled the trigger and shot Q, had Eve not suddenly turned to him and fired first. He got it right in the forehead. 

He dropped his gun. He fell on the cold, hard floor and stained it with blood that ran out of his head. Skull-Head put his finger on the detonator. 

Eve and two operatives shot him in the back several times. He almost managed to press the button of doom, yet fortunately, he let go of it as he lost all strength and balance. The momentum of the shots trying to move onward and go through the man’s body caused that he overbalanced and fell headfirst, directly onto 007. 

The agent caught the switch and turned off the countdown at the very last second. Everyone sighed in relief. 

Q was safe. They were going back. They were going home.

“Now, if someone minded to untie us…?” Bond growled. The blood from all the bullet wounds in Skull-Head’s body began to soak through his shirt by that time, and besides, he was quite heavy.

“And fetch my glasses, please, I hate seeing shit.” 

Bond smiled when he heard Q again, back at it with the rapier wit. He needed to get out from the cords and go to him. He needed to see his husband and pull him in a sincere embrace as if they were apart for weeks, because he was fully aware he could as well never see him again after that day. 

Operative Buckers ran to 007, and Eve started to untangle Q. She found his spectacles and carefully put it on his nose. The first thing the young agent did was pulling the literal dead weight off Bond, then he untied his arms. 

With hands free, Bond was able to extricate himself from the goddamned chair just fine. However, his muscles were rather stiff and his wrists hurt, as a result of the tight hold of the ropes, and when he stood up, his head spun for few seconds before he regained stability and concentration. 

He made two steps and got in front of his husband, who was in much worse shape than he was. Bond couldn’t bear looking at him – bleeding lip, black eyes on both sides of his countenance, sweaty forehead, broken nose, and much more wounds hidden under his clothes. That should have never happened.

He didn’t care about the pain in his own face or blood flowing out of one of his cheeks. In was nothing in comparison to Q’s state. He kneeled in front of the chair Q was still sitting in and gently cupped his face. 

“It’s alright now, Andrew. Let’s get you to Medical.” He did not mind using Q’s real name in front of the others when they knew anyway. He pressed a soft kiss on his brow and helped him get up. 

“James, I assure you I am fine, you are exaggerating it again. You keep forgetting I have undergone physical and psychological training as any other employee. Besides, I am your husband, aren’t I?” Q tried to smile but hissed with pain. His lips were bleeding and swollen. Smiling hurt. Even speaking hurt, but Q was too proud to admit that. 

Bond gave Q a gentle hug, careful not to press his stomach. He felt relieved and satisfied when the younger man relaxed at least a little in the hug. Bond could feel him close his eyes and breathe in his scent, something familiar. 

When he pulled away, he looked in Q’s eyes and replied worriedly, “Yes, you very well are, but you could have died. I love you, Q, and this is for your own good. We don’t know if you don’t suffer from internal bleeding or something. Let’s go, slowly.”

Bond supported Q with an arm round his waist as they walked and let him put one arm on his shoulders. No matter what he said, Q still was rather weak and he might collapse if he was to walk on his own. 

“I couldn’t live if something happened to you if I lost you, and today, the terrifying possibility occurred. I cannot even withstand the mere thought of it. I am sorry, Andrew, for everything I said earlier today. You know I haven’t meant it—”

“Shush, 007. I know. I am not angry with you; you had all rights to be mad and, although I hate to admit it, you were right. I was an arse.”

“No, you don’t say that. And be careful, there are stairs.”

“So, I think you two owe me and the entire Six one hell of an explanation,” Eve, one of their best friends, stepped in in their quiet conversation, walking next to Bond. “Married? Really?”

As if she never joked about them arguing as an old married couple or being absolutely perfect for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify things, it's a canon divergence, which you know. Eve is still an operative, HQ still stands, there was no Blofeld, and MI5 and MI6 merged as the services were supposed to in SPECTRE. 
> 
> It's not going to be that long after all, 4 chapters only. I couldn't let my babies suffer anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long time, here's the close-up. It's short and kinda unnecessary, but I promised you four chapters.... so here you go. I would have made it longer, but I'm going through some sort of a writer's block and I have no ideas what to write, nor inspiration, so this has to be enough.

**about two hours later**

Cleaned up and patched up, Bond and Q sat in M’s office, vis-à-vis the boss. Bond shifted in his chair uncomfortably, feeling a bit off-colour and restless. The woman glared at him with her icy gaze. The room was silent. 

She looked at Q then. He looked terrible, even without blood covering his face. Both his eyes were black and swollen. He had a bandage and plaster on the bridge of his nose. He lacked his glasses, forced to wear contact lenses instead, since even the smallest weight pressing the broken bones hurt. He wore a fresh pair of trousers and a simple dark blue cardigan over a t-shirt. 

 

The doctor dressed his bruised ribs with, according to Q, an unnecessary think layer of gauze and ordered him to rest and move only when called for. Of course, Q would not listen. He said he was all right and refused to go home for the rest of the day, let alone a whole week, as M, the doctor, and even Bond demanded. Stubborn as ever, the Quartermaster. 

He appeared to be calm and strong, hiding all signs of pain. If it hurt when he breathed, he would show nothing. If it hurt when he walked, he would show nothing. If it hurt when he smiled or frowned, he would show nothing. Yet all Bond could see and think of was that he could have died and that he should go home as M emphatically told him to, lie in bed, and let Bond take care of his precious little darling. 

Bond was always overprotective of Q. He minded not Q was a man of action possibly more dangerous than he was, or that he ran an entire Branch in MI6 in his age. Bond might have been a reckless idiot who did not listen to instructions and let himself get captured two times in a month once, but when it came to Q, he would do anything. He could not let him go to work when in such state – hell, Andrew forgot to eat, sleep, and go take a piss for hours. He sometimes forgot to come home. He once fell asleep in the tube and was robbed. He hit a traffic sing and almost got run over by a car while playing Pokémon Go (yes, he played that goddamn game and Bond often walked with him to prevent accidents as the latter). And now, to top it all, he was bloody kidnapped!

And so was he, and it was his fault. He did admit it this time. 

 

“Two years. 007, are you really telling me you and the Quartermaster are married for over two years and no one has bothered to report such an important and essential relationship status to me? Something like this is to be anticipated from 007, but I would expect more responsible and adult approach from the Quartermaster. The employer must know of all internal relationships, regardless of any disapproval I might have toward so!” 

M glared from Q to Bond and back at the Quartermaster. Her eyes were full of anger and objections, which the couple knew soon to be gone, though. The woman was no less than a motherly figure to Bond, as he was a son she never had to her – deep inside, she must have been happy for them, although she might as well never admit it. At least a little.

“It was for the best of us all and, so to speak, the Country to keep our relationship undisclosed,” Q replied in a quiet, rasping voice. Yet, he managed to preserve his usual strong, matter-of-fact spirit, and when he looked M in the eye, he was nothing but direct. “It was safer having everyone oblivious to the state of things, and we take full responsibility for all actions we made with full awareness and consideration, madam.” 

“And besides, our imagination didn’t have to go very far to picture this exact conversation, which Q and I happily wanted to avoid, alongside with the incredible amounts of paperwork that go with it.” 

Bond just _had to_ tease their boss, didn’t he? Even though that sentence was partially true, Q felt an urge to sigh, and he would have, hadn’t it been for the dull yet striking pain in his stomach. It always was like this with his James, all the puns and snarky comments. 

But exactly that was one of the little things Q loved about his husband so much. Owing to that, he might even survive this unpleasant conversation with M and go home unbroken, with his significant other by his side.

The image of their bed, lying on it, cuddling, and sleeping for two days made him forget about the terrible things that happened only because one stupid runaway agent wanted a fresh start at least for a while, and drift away. As he looked out of the windows, Q even relaxed a little.

At least until M didn’t reply to James’ remark. “Why am I not surprised to hear you still haven’t learnt from all your misdemeanours, 007? I should suspend you both for a minimum of two months and let you do _all_ the paperwork!”

Yet suddenly, the coldness from her eyes disappeared, replaced by a smile. “But first, let me congratulate you, James and Andrew Bond.”

Well, Q definitely did not expect _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand, this is it. Hope you enjoyed XD All reviews always welcome.
> 
> I'm nor really sure about M or ooc-iness in this part, but whatever. At least I wrote it at all. I think you can imagine what follows. They just go home and do normal things as ordinary human beings.


End file.
